


good to go

by Chex (provetheworst)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, that is the entire plot, that's it that's the fic, they go to a fall out boy show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 02:18:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1287532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provetheworst/pseuds/Chex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean and Marco attempt to go to a Fall Out Boy show. Things occur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	good to go

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr user feastevil made a post about wanting a fic where Jean and Marco go to a Fall Out Boy show, and I went, "haha, what a funny concept, I'll write a scene of this as a joke" and then suddenly it was three hours and almost 4000 words later and I do not know what happened oh god. Literally the entire plot of this story is ... Jean and Marco going to a FOB show. That's it. That's the fic.
> 
> This hasn't been edited, sorry. /o\ I just want to post post post.

"We have to go early," Jean says, jabbing Marco in the chest with a finger. He turns away, pacing back and forth and gesturing meaninglessly. "Like, super fucking early; you know how early people get in line?"

Marco pulls his tickets out, looking down at them, barely suppressing a laugh. “Why can’t we just go when the show’s supposed to start? It’s pretty cold out.”

Jean stops, staring at Marco with one of the most offended expressions Marco has ever seen. "It’s supposed to be cold! It’s March!"

Helplessly, Marco shrugs. "That’s - not an argument, though."

"But it’s not an excuse," Jean points out, crossing his arms triumphantly. "So we’ll get in line at, what, one? That way we’ll be right up at the barrier for the show."

"Five," Marco says, leaning against his desk and watching Jean intently. Without really looking, he picks up a mechanical pencil and starts fiddling with the worn-down eraser, as if he could get it out far enough to replace it one-handed. He's still got his tickets clutched in his other hand.

Jean stares him down. "Two."

Marco sighs heavily, lifting his gaze from the pencil to meet Jean's eyes. “Six.”

Jean throws his hands in the air, incredulous. “That’s not how bargaining’s supposed to work!”

"It’s just too early to line up for a show, that’s all. I’ve got a lot of homework to finish this weekend."

"This is, like. The most important concert of all time. Marco. You don’t understand."

Marco tosses the pencil aside and stuffs his tickets into his back pocket again, all so that he can put both hands on Jean’s shoulders. He leans in close and speaks very quietly, as if he's bestowing Jean with some sort of secret wisdom. Wisdom that Jean really should know already. “Jean. I’m the one who introduced you to them in the first place.”

Jean gets indignant, at that, his scowl deepening. “I’d - heard of them before. Whatever, I’m telling you. We gotta get there early.”

"You can go early. I’ll get there later and we can just hang out after."

"Ugh, no way. I’m not going without you. Remember what happened last time we split up? You died!"

Marco’s still got his hands on Jean’s shoulders, and he tightens his grip a little; he smiles, fondly. “That was a video game.”

Jean's brow furrows in frustration. "You still died!"

"I don’t think I’m going to die if we don’t show up at the show at the same time, Jean. It’ll be okay." Marco bites his lip, because otherwise he'll end up smiling too wide and too obvious.

Jean keeps glaring at him, though he does eventually pull away. "I’m going when you go, and that’s final."

Marco smiles pleasantly. "Six it is, then! Once I finish this essay."

Jean groans. “Uuuuugh. You’re the worst.”

-

“I can’t believe this. I can’t fucking believe you convinced me to come at six.”

“The line’s not … okay, it’s that bad,” Marco admits. They’ve been driving for twenty minutes just trying to find parking anywhere even close to the venue. The only spot they found was immediately taken by a Prius that swerved around them to take it; since then there’s been a parking garage charging $20 for the night. Otherwise, nothing.

“We’re not even going to see them. We’re going to miss the entire show, and my life’s going to be fucking over.”

“I thought I was the one at risk of death here.”

“We’re both going to die! We’re going to die from missing Fall Out Boy. Man, you fuck. You and your essays. Your schoolwork.”

“At least the line’s moving,” Marco says, as he circles the car past the venue again. “Did we go down this street yet?”

“I have no idea. I’m starting to lose my mind.” Jean rests his head against the window, tapping his fingers against the armrest in an erratic rhythm completely contrary to whateve's on the radio.

“Shh, Jean. Shh. At least our homework’s done. We’ve got bright futures.” Marco keeps watching the road, hoping a parking space will somehow materialize out of the air. So far it seems unlikely.

Jean sounds more sullen than he did the time Marco finally beat him in Gears of War. “Bright futures without Fall Out Boy in them are not fucking bright, Marco.”

Marco glances over at him. “I don’t think being late to a show’s gonna, like, disqualify us from the CIA -”

“It could! You don’t know! It shows lack of foresight. Bad planning. We fucked up. Shit, we fucked up so bad.”

“Okay, look. We’ll just like - drive a little further and then take the bus back over here.”

“Jesus Christ.” Jean sinks down into his seat, then jerks upright before he’s even settled, and practically screams in delight. “Marco! Tail lights!”

“What the -”

“Stop!”

Marco slams on the brakes, just in time to notice that, indeed, a car parked along the street’s tail lights have just lit up. It’s only two blocks away from the venue. Marco leans forward over the steering wheel, watching in genuine shock as the car pulls out. There’s not even any traffic being held up by them stopping.

“Park, park, park!”

“Dude,” Marco says, his foot already on the pedal. “I’m parking. I don’t have lightning reflexes, man. Not all of us can be Mi-kaaaaasa.”

“Ugh, shut up, I’m over her. I’m over it, I’m done. She’s outta my league.”

Marco focuses on parking, then, once the car’s securely in the space, turns to Jean. “Don’t start, Jean. There’s not even - dating isn’t football, and you’re - not out of anybody’s league.”

“Is that supposed to be inspiring?”

“I mean, like …” Marco looks down as he undoes his seatbelt and retrieves the keys. “What I meant is, I don’t think there’s anybody out of your league. You know? You’re smart and funny and - you’re not ugly, so. If you’re over Mikasa, that’s cool, but you shouldn’t just give up.”

Jean stares at Marco, brow furrowed, before deciding to pat Marco on the shoulder. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Yeah.” Marco turns away, looking out at the street. He has to wait a moment for a car to drive by before he can get out. “C’mon, let’s go see Fall Out Boy.”

-

Even after driving in circles for twenty minutes and a four-minute walk to the venue, the line still wraps around the far side of the building, though now just barely. At least it’s in motion. Jean’s practically vibrating in place any time they stand still; Marco shoves his hands in his pockets and tries not to mock him too much.

“You okay there?”

“We’re probably missing the openers. We’re gonna be all the way at the back. And it’s still gonna be so fucking good.”

Marco holds out a fist, and Jean gives him a fistbump before abruptly changing his mind and grabbing Marco’s hand in both of his own.

“You don’t even get it. We’re gonna see Fall Out Boy! I’ve never seen them! This is - the best night. This is already the best night, and we fucked it all up. And it’s still awesome.”

“We didn’t even fuck up that bad. I mean, we made it, right? We got a good spot, the line’s like - we’re on the right side of the building now. I say it’s not a fuck up.”

“I’m just really glad it’s you here. I mean, I would’ve gone alone, or with like … shit, I would have gone with Eren, that’s how bad I want to see these guys, but - I’m glad you’re here, that’s all.”

Marco smiles, pulling his hand free of Jean’s and putting both hands firmly in his pockets. He looks to Jean for a moment, smile soft and warm, then looks back ahead, shuffling along as the line moves again. “Yeah? Thanks. I’m glad you’re here, too.”

They’re at the head of the line before Jean can say anything else ridiculous and sappy, with their IDs out to prove they’re old enough to be here but not old enough to drink, and their tickets ready to be torn before they emerge into the venue proper. 

There’s a hall to traverse, a set of stairs, and the sound of the opening band to drown out much in the way of meaningful conversation unless they shout in each other’s ears, which neither of them opts to do.

As they get to the actual room where the stage is, the opener is just finishing up - which means older fans start drifting barward.

“Here, c’mon,” Marco says, and, without second-guessing himself, grabs Jean’s wrist to drag him through the crowd. They have to weave through groups of people already there, some packed close, to get to a spot Marco saw that’s surprisingly close to the stage.

Getting there involves a little shoving, but with how vehement Jean was about getting barrier, Marco thinks it’s worth it. They make it without anyone punching them for pushing through, at least, though Marco’s pretty sure at least a few people want to kill them. He sincerely doubts anyone’s going to actually murder them at a throwback pop punk show, so, guilty as he feels, he writes it off. Jean’s happy, anyway, which was his primary concern.

They probably could have stood to get here a little earlier, but he really did have an essay, and the class is a core requirement for his major. Marco’s torn between grad school and applying for the CIA as soon as he’s finished his bachelor’s, but either path is going to need him to actually do his work. He’s pretty sure he made the right choice, though. Jean had ended up hanging out in his room working on his own work the entire time, too, and they’d both finished a little before six - time enough to grab dinner before heading out and then spending way too long trying to park, at least.

They made it, and they’re at a decent spot in the crowd, the stage in clear view. At least for Marco. He leans over. “Can you see okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” Jean grins, shifting closer to Marco. Their shoulders bump together and Marco doesn’t move away. “God, I know it’s gonna be forever before they set up, but I’m so hyped.”

“It’s still weird to me you’ve never seen them.”

“Hiatus!” Jean clenches a hand into a fist, raising it in front of his chest. “They were on hiatus. I had no choice.”

Marco rolls his eyes though he still can’t help but smile. “You could have time traveled.”

“Yeah, let me just invent a time machine so I can go see Fall Out Boy in the past, that sounds great. Reasonable. I”ll just change majors, whatever.”

“As if you don’t secretly love physics.”

“Wouldn’t it be engineering?”

“Maybe both,” Marco offers. He shakes his head. “Don’t ask me. I’m not the one who needs to invent a time machine.”

“What, Mr Saw Them In High School. You can just suck my dick.”

Marco’s face goes bright red, and he cuffs Jean on the side of the head. “I- uh, I’d rather invent a time machine for you.”

Jean turns back to look at the stage, though they’re still close enough that their arms are pressed together, Jean’s shoulder warm against Marco’s. Jean reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, so at least their hands aren’t quite so close. “I’m gonna tweet this. Here, wait, wait, let me get a picture of us.”

Jean holds his phone out a little, careful not to bump the head of the person standing in front of them, and leans in, giving a thumbs up with his free hand. Marco’s still bright red, and has only begun to attempt a smile when Jean takes the picture.

“Oh, god, don’t post that.”

“You look hilarious! It’s cute.” Jean stabs his thumb against the post button, then hits himself in the forehead. “Fuck, I forgot a caption. Shit.”

“You could post another tweet?”

“No, no, I’m deleting that. Fuck! Here, we’ll get another one, and you can stop with your weirdo Bertholdt impression.”

“I didn’t look that awkward, did I?”

Jean gets a picture of them in that moment, with Marco looking vaguely concerned. “Even worse. Awesome. Okay, what do I say? Gimme a caption.”

“You could just not,” Marco tries, hopefully. “That’d be cool.”

“No, no. Okay. ‘Me and @freckledjesus ready for the second coming.’ Get it? Because of your handle -”

“You’ve got to mention Fall Out Boy, at least. Come on. Jean.”

“Fine, okay. ‘Waiting for the Fall Out Boy show with blah-blah-blah.’ I’ll just put your handle. Happy?”

“Yeah, actually.” Marco’s cheeks heat up again, and he rubs at the back of his head, smiling despite himself. “It’s kind of hard to stay mad when you’re about to see your favorite band.”

Jean frowns, at that, suddenly looking concerned. “Wait, you were mad? I don’t have to post this one. Or - I mean, I just did, but I can delete it. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! No, it’s fine, I’m having fun.”

“Okay.” Jean nods. “Okay, cool, good. Sorry. That was weird of me, right? Whatever. God. How long can it possibly take to set up?”

“Ages.” Marco sighs wearily. “Like ten years.”

“Or half an hour,” Jean says. “If it’s more than thirty minutes, I’m gonna - I’m gonna -”

“Keep waiting?”

“Yeah, that,” Jean says. “I might post an angry tweet or something, though.”

-

The lights go down, the music being piped in over the PA goes silent, and Jean grabs Marco’s arm so tightly it almost hurts. “Marco!” he whispers, harshly. “Fall Out Boy!”

Marco laughs and keeps his eyes on the stage, bouncing a little on his feet in anticipation. Unthinkingly he bends his arm so he can cover Jean’s hand with his own. “I know!”

The band starts to walk on, and Jean hides his face against Marco’s shoulder. “I’m gonna fucking die, holy shit.”

“Oh my god, you’re a baby. You’re worse than me. Watch!”

“I’m watching! I’ll watch. This is -”

Then they start to play, and Jean actually does watch, still holding tightly to Marco’s arm; his eyes are wide and bright and Marco forgets, for a moment, that they’re here to see the band, because he’s transfixed by how Jean looks, in the dim light from the stage, with the music loud around them.

At some point Jean does let go, in favor of throwing a hand in the air in time with the music, and Marco does something that could charitably be called dancing. 

Jean spends the entirety of Alone Together singing along, fist pressed over his heart and eyes shut tight as he sings, just slightly off key because he can’t hear himself properly over the speakers. Marco spends half the song watching Jean and the rest with his eyes shut as he nods in time to it.

Every now and then, Jean will catch Marco’s eye and grin at him, and Marco grins back; Jean’ll push at his shoulder or lean against him or give him a thumbs up and Marco mirrors whatever Jean does. His chest feels tight and he can’t hear his own thoughts, and the bass travels from his feet all the way to the top of his hair.

It makes Marco want to start a band, sort of. He’s never played an instrument before, unless one counts the recorder and maracas in kindergarten; he can barely sing, but he thinks, for the sake of nights like this, he’d spend as much time as it took to learn. He wants nights like this, but mostly he wants them with Jean.

He has to close his eyes to keep himself from staring at Jean after that thought. Not that he’s been shy about doing so before now, but there’s times when it hits him just how much he likes Jean, and just how he likes Jean, and it’s too much. But Fall Out Boy start playing Hum Hallelujah, and at least he doesn’t feel alone in being overwhelmed by it. 

He sings along. He’s been singing along, off and on, with most of the songs, at least for the chorus, but he sings along with all of this one, so quiet that only he can hear it, barely even vocalizing the sounds in favor of mouthing the words and feeling them in his throat.

After Dance, Dance, Fall Out Boy walk off, the lights come up, and no one moves to leave.

“Ooh my god,” Jean says, pressing his hands to his eyes, then messing up his hair. “Fuck, this is so good.”

“Right? I told you.”

“You told me! I knew it. I’m so - fuck.” Jean’s grin is incandescent, leaving Marco somewhat stunned by its ferocity. “Thanks, man. Thank you.”

“I - yeah,” Marco says. He shakes his head, smiling back. “How long until they come back out, do you figure?”

“Mm. Not too long.” Jean cocks his head. One side of the crowd have started chanting the band’s name, so he joins in; Marco looks down to see that Jean’s stomping his foot in time with the chant, too.

Marco joins in, because he might as well, though he claps his hands. He doesn’t think it matters how loud they shout for it, because the band are going to come back out either way. They haven’t even played Saturday. The crowd’s sweaty, and space is cramped. He and Jean are standing even closer than when the set started just because of the way people have pressed forward. They’ve at least gotten a little closer to the stage in the process.

Marco keeps his eyes up there, waiting for the lights to dim, waiting for the band to come back on. His stomach feels fluttery and he’s not just sweating because of the heat.

“Dude,” Jean starts, but then Fall Out Boy come back out, and instead of whatever he was about to say, he cheers instead. “Yes!”

Jean spends half of I’ve Got a Bad Idea and a Dark Alley just beaming at Marco, and Marco forgets to do anything other than grin back at him. He catches himself by the second song of the encore and remembers to dance or stare up at Pete and Patrick and Andy and Joe, or close his eyes and sing along, but every now and then he’ll grin at Jean, and Jean’ll smile at him and Marco’s heart’ll beat a little faster than the music.

Fall Out Boy start playing Saturday, and Marco’s genuinely surprised it’s almost over. He’d forgotten, briefly, that the whole world wasn’t confined to this one cramped and sweaty room. At the outside, they’ve got three and a half minutes left before they’re stuck in the press of the crowd pushing outside, where they’ll emerge from the cocoon of music back into the chill air of late winter.

Patrick Stump’s on stage singing about how he can’t sleep in the wake of Saturday, and Marco’s got his eyes closed. Jean puts an arm around his shoulders, pulling Marco in close. Marco squints his eyes open, nodding in time with the rhythm, and smiles as he sees Jean singing along.

He wishes he could say he doesn’t know which of them makes the first move, but it’s him leaning in, pressing his mouth to Jean’s cheek and the corner of his mouth. Jean looks surprised, but not unhappy, and he turns his head toward Marco. It looks like he might say something, but he doesn’t, and he lets Marco kiss him. Jean allows it, and he kisses back, for a brief instant, and then he’s back to singing along.

Marco’s heart almost sinks, but he can’t even bring himself to be pessimistic, not with Patrick singing about Saturday, when these open doors were open-ended, because that’s how it feels. Everything feels open-ended, and maybe Marco just fucked up, but maybe he didn’t.

He leans in, cheek to cheek with Jean to sing that final drawn-out Saturday, and then the song’s over and he lets out a surprised breath. The lights come up, the band leave the stage, and a tinny Arcade Fire song comes on over the club speakers. 

Marco’s head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton, and he sort of wants to pick at them though he knows it wouldn’t really help. Instead he rubs at his face, takes a deep breath, and turns to head outside. Jean follows close behind him, and neither of them says anything until they’re nearly back to the car.

“That was so good,” Jean says. “Holy shit. LIke, I knew - but I was kind of ready for it to not be, I don’t know, everything I dreamed of ever?”

“It can’t have been everything,” Marco says, laughing a little. “I mean, maybe most things. But you’ve got to have bigger dreams than that.”

“I don’t know. Seeing my favorite band with my best friend is pretty cool. That’s a good thing to look forward to.” Jean steps a little closer to Marco, and their hands brush. Marco tenses and thinks of moving away, but forces himself not to. “I mean, that, and, like. Stuff.”

“Stuff. You dream of stuff.”

“Shut up.” Jean laughs, scuffing his dirty chucks against the pavement. They reach Marco’s car and stop. Marco should go around to the driver’s side, but he stands there, instead, facing Jean. Jean’s smiling, rubbing a hand against the short, dark hair just above his ears. “You know what I mean.”

“The other thing?”

Jean starts laughing. “Fuck. We’re so punk rock. Stuff and the other thing. I mean, like.”

In one instant, Jean grabs Marco’s hand, scrunches his eyes shut tight, and leans in for another kiss. He ends up mashing his nose against Marco’s, and Marco was about to say something, which somehow results in their teeth hitting together with an almost-painful click. Marco tries not to laugh, and tips his head a little to the side so it’s easier.

He’s not sure how long they stand there like that, nor is he sure quite when he gets his hands around Jean’s waist. At some point they break for air, and Jean says, “That stuff.”

“That stuff. That was, like - you wanted to -”

“Wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t want to,” Jean says.

“I was the one who kissed you first.”

“And I would’ve, I don’t know, turned you down? Whatever, I would’ve done something besides kiss you if it wasn’t cool, dude. Come on. Obviously.”

“Well, I don’t know!”

“You’re so dumb,” Jean says, pressing his forehead against Marco’s. He runs a hand through Marco’s hair, taking a deep breath. “You wanna get some Arby’s?”

“What? I don’t really like Arby’s. We could do IHOP or something?”

“Shut the fuck up! You do not. I’ve known you - how long? - and you hate Arby’s? Bullshit.”

Marco grins. He steps away, ruffling Jean’s hair, and finally heads around to get in the car. “That’s not, like, a dealbreaker, right? You’re not gonna decide you don’t … want to kiss me and whatever because of Arby’s.”

“I’ll find a way to forgive you,” Jean says. He slides into the car and presses a hand to his heart. “Somehow. You’ve taught me the importance of forgiveness. Life lessons, Marco. So many life lessons from freckled Jesus.”

“God.” Marco presses his head back against the headrest, laughing up at the car roof. “Stop it.”

“You’re a role model, man! So much wisdom at such a young age. It’s inspiring. Where the fuck are your CDs?”

“They’re in the glovebox, like always.”

“Oh,” Jean says. He rolls his eyes. “Mr CDs-in-the-glovebox here. What’s wrong with the old backseat or center console, huh?”

“I don’t want people to steal them -”

“In 2014! You’re scared of people stealing CDs in 2014.” Jean sorts through the stack anyway, before settling on one and slipping it in the CD player. He waves a hand at the keys, and Marco turns the car on just for that.

“Shut up!”

Jean turns up the volume just in time for the opening of From Under the Cork Tree to be audible. “Or what?”

“Or -” Marco starts, and then decides that, rather than trying to come up with anything - because he’s never been good at threats - that it’s as good a time as any to lean across the center console and kiss Jean. It stops him from talking, at least, which is a good third of the goal.

The rest is because Marco wants to, and because he knows, now, that he can.


End file.
